


Simplicity

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Semi-Public Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9160222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: “He can’t come up with the word. It’s pathetic, really. He’s a writer. A smooth talker. He’s famous for it. Famous, and here he is, choking on a syllable.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Happy New Year Pr0n? Insert for “Clear and Present Danger” (7 x 03)

 

 

The complexity of things 

— the things within things — 

just seems to be endless. 

I mean nothing is easy, 

nothing is simple. 

—Alice Munro

* * *

 

 

“You’re com- . . . . com- . . .” 

He can’t produce the word. Absolutely can’t pluck it from the tip of his own tongue. It’s pathetic, really. He’s a writer. A smooth talker. He’s famous for it. _Famous_ , and here he is, choking on a syllable.  

“ _Complex._ ” 

The back of his skull soundly meets cinderblock, and out it pops. The word he was looking for. His teeth come together in something like a grin. Something triumphant. It should be triumphant, anyway, but it’s pretty much not. It’s pretty much . . . desperate. There’s another word. _Three syllables. Four._ Because desperation is better. He’s suffused with desperation. Suffused is a good word. Only two syllables, though. One, two syllables. Six with desperation and bonus points for fancy, but still. _One, two, three, four . . . Jesus._  

“Complex, Beckett. I love that about you.” 

A full sentence. A fragment, but the other one has all the moving parts. He’s proud of himself. Very temporarily proud of himself. 

“Love it _quieter,_ Castle.” 

Her head moves into his field of vision. Her face, actually. The top of her head has been persistently in his field of vision since she’d shoved him into . . . wherever this is . . . and sunk to her knees. 

She flashes a glance upward that’s dark and dangerous enough that all the syllable counting in the world won’t save him, and she knows it, too. The barely-there whisper of her fingertips as she drags his zipper down says she knows nothing will save him and that’s pretty much the plan. But just in case he didn’t know that . . . 

“That uniform is bored, not deaf,” she adds as she turns her attention right back to her sudden-onset pet project, namely destroying him. 

“Uniform,” he groans. 

He starts to groan, but there’s no air for that. No air at all when she slips her palm inside his jeans, but he’ll be damned if the last word he utters in this world will be that dumb. And only three syllables. And there’s something about the uniform. She was pissed at him. There was a DVD. And there wasn’t a DVD. And there was supposed to be a DVD. And she was pissed, and that has . . . something to do with this? Something to do with the predatory gaze she’s leveling at the bulge in his jeans. The bulge formerly in his jeans, currently in the literal palm of her hand. 

“Door,” he blurts. A monosyllable in extremis, but it seems important that he slow her down. That he figure this out. “Is there even a door? It’s just that cage thing. Jesus, Beckett, we at least need a fucking door.” 

 _Hands._ He remembers that he has hands, so he might as well bury one in her hair. He might as well fight back, right? He tugs hard. Her chin snaps up, and he can tell even in the gloom of wherever the hell they are that she doesn’t agree. About the door. About him fighting back. She definitely, _absolutely_ doesn’t agree about that. 

“No. Door.” It’s two syllables. Two measly syllables, but they’re _way_ better than his. They’re convincing. Authoritative. That’s five syllables. Authoritative is good, though it’s stuck inside his head. And she’s winning. She’s wrapping her hand around his cock and definitely winning. “No door. No walls. Just boxes. So shut up.” 

He does shut up for a while. He loses his grip on her hair. His fingers splay out against the wall at his back, and he is most _definitely_ quiet enough to hear her lick her lips. To actually _hear_ the positively lewd sound she makes under her breath—something between a purr and a growl—as she maneuvers his rock-hard length through the slit in his boxers. He most definitely shuts up, courtesy of that whole no-air-at-all thing until she swallows him whole. 

 _Literally._ Ok. Not literally. But kind of literally, if his entire identity is reduced to his dick—a very, _very_ apt summary of the state of affairs at this particular moment in time. So, yes. She _literally_ swallows him whole. Her mouth is scorching hot and blissfully wet and the frictionless slide downward when he hits the back of her throat and she just leans into it is . . . it’s . . . 

“Fuck. Kate. Fuck.” 

Monosyllables. Hard _K_ s. It’s the only thing in his arsenal when she drags backward. When she curls her fingers into his hips and her nails bite into the skin and she uses her teeth. Too much. _Just enough._ Too much. _Just enough._ Again and again and again in perfect increments, and all he has are monosyllables. 

“God, _Kate . . ._ ” 

His hands remember they exist again. The rest of his body remembers, and he’s suddenly hauling her upward. He’s suddenly setting her on her feet and knocking her back against the wall. Panting, with his lips an inch from hers. Stilling her wrists against the cinderblock, because he remembers where all this really started. Remembers the air, thick and awkward between them back at the loft, and then _want._ He remembers, and still he can’t get the words out. Not really.  

“What . . .?” 

He kisses her. As much to stop his own mouth as anything. As much to quiet himself, because there’s still some nameless uniform she’s pissed at sitting behind his desk, just two towering stacks of boxes over or something, but the taste of her is incredible. The feel of her.  

“What are you doing, Kate?” he asks faintly. Almost inaudibly. His eyes drag open just in time to see her face settling into defiant lines. Just in time to see half a dozen other things fall away, leaving one thing behind: Determination. _Five syllables,_ he thinks, swallowing hard.

“Going for a personal best.” She arches her back. She presses herself into him, and that’s mission accomplished. She twists one wrist free and spins them again. She slams his back none-too-gently into the wall. Pins him with her body, and it’s overkill. The sheer force of her glare is more than enough to fix him in place, and she knows it. She absolutely knows it as she drags every inch of her body down every inch of his. “With or without your cooperation.” 

“Why?” he gasps. 

Her attack is entirely different this time. Minute flicks of the tongue. Advance and retreat as her fingers curl around the base of his cock. 

“Because . . ." she drags the syllables out, one at a time. Sucks just the head into her mouth, then lets it pop back out again. “I’m _frustrated_ , Castle.” 

“Frustrated,” he echoes. 

It sounds important, faint as it is in his ears. _Pressing. Momentous. Importunate. Imperative. Exigent._ His brain unleashes a torrent of synonyms. Of syllables as she sinks forward. As she swallows around him then draws back until her lips form an _O._ As she flicks a glance up to be sure he’s watching, and it’s positively demure. Positively obscene the way she loosens her fingers from around him, one at a time. As she plants one palm on each of his hips and sets about destroying him in earnest. 

_Frustrated. Three syllables. Three. Fucking. Syllables._

It’s his last thought as his eyes roll back in his head. As everything in him coils tight and low and airless for a long, brilliantly hard moment before he surrenders. He’s scraping the hell out of his knuckles as his fists press helplessly back into the wall. He comes endlessly. Erratically. Her tongue works the underside of his shaft and the wicked, satisfied hum rumbling in her throat coaxes him on and on and on until he can’t _possibly_ have anything left in him. 

 _“Frustrated!”_ His eyes fly open. He thinks he’s shouted it, and there’s some very good reason why he shouldn’t have. 

She’s smiling at him, though, so he must not have. She’s all cat-who-ate-the-canary, and there’s a metaphor. She’s tucking him away. Matter of factly straightening his shirt tails and doing up his pants. 

“Frustrated.” She gives his zipper a tug that’s firmer than is strictly necessary. “Not any more.” She grins as she pushes the button of his jeans into place and sets to work on his belt. “You can’t _possibly_ be.” 

“Me?” he hisses, and that’s loud enough to garner a glare. “You. I didn’t . . .You’re . . .”  He sputters and stammers as quietly as he can. 

It’s not quiet enough for her tastes. Not at all, judging by the hard press of her mouth on his. The unrelenting sweep of her tongue with the taste of him on it. 

“I’m . . .” She grins at him. Pulls the swell of her lower lip between her teeth and _grins._ “Complex.” 

“And I’m . . . simple.” He tries to grin back. He really does try, but this is all more than a little miserable. A dank corner and a  cinderblock wall. This isn’t how it should have happened. Not the first time since he’d left her. “Easy.” 

“You . . .” She twitches his jacket back into place. She presses herself against him. Presses him into the wall all over again, but it’s different this time. She winds her arms around his neck and kisses him sweetly. Lingeringly. “You, Castle, are a convenient problem I can actually solve.”  

She tips her head back. She finds his eyes and lets him see the shadows there. Fewer than before. Fewer than just a little while ago, and something in his chest loosens. His lungs fill, and dank corner or not, there’s nothing more complicated between them than want. Nothing, for the moment, hanging heavier in the air than the sweet, familiar scent of desire.

“I am,” he says, pulling her close again. Laughing into her hair. “That I am.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This actually started with Castle bringing Beckett the latte with the heart in it. A sweet gesture, yes, and certainly one he might make without prompting, especially as they are trying  to. . . ahem . . . reunite in this episode. But Brain Poneh decided that something had prompted him. And then it couldn’t leave plotless smut well enough alone, and now this is like two pretty dumb stories smooshed together. 


End file.
